


Vigorous Spring

by thepizzasitter



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Barduil - Freeform, Blow Jobs, Bottom Thranduil, But he's learning to roll with it, Elves really confuse Bard, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Hand Jobs, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Past Thranduil/Thranduil's wife and Bard/Bard's Wife mentioned, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Ritual Sex, Rituals, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Thranduil is figuring out this whole feelings thing, Top Bard, and really doing a terrible job at it, author will stop making ridiculous tags now, eh they'll get there in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:37:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6184510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepizzasitter/pseuds/thepizzasitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Soft, silent snowflakes graced the gentle curve of cheek and forehead, tilted up to the sky as it was. The world was weary, exhausted in spite of its long rest, and the forest groaned with the need for replenishment and new awakenings. Thranduil traced his fingers along the trunks of each tree he passed, whispering sweetly to them, promising their renewal soon, very soon. The Dragonslayer would begin his hunt, and Thranduil would end this night with his legs wrapped around Dale’s new king and an oath to Arda fulfilled." In which First Age Elven rituals are often a source of confusion for bargemen and the council of the Elvenking had better start running while Thranduil is otherwise occupied. Barduil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigorous Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Let me start by saying that I completely ignored the idea that sex is essentially Elven marriage and laced the lovely idea of ritual sex and First Age customs into Bard and Thranduil's relationship. That's pretty much the fic. Music inspiration was "Intro (Delirium)" by Ellie Goulding. My Tumblr name is kesstiel, and I have lots of fics and drabbles there for your perusal. Enjoy!

Soft, silent snowflakes graced the gentle curve of cheek and forehead, tilted up to the sky as it was.

The world was weary, exhausted in spite of its long rest, and the forest groaned with the need for replenishment and new awakenings. Thranduil traced his fingers along the trunks of each tree he passed, whispering sweetly to them, promising their renewal soon, very soon.

The spring would be upon them eventually, though the earth shuddered and struggled to push her blossoms into the frigid air each year, century after century, age after age. All things would be alive once more, and Thranduil ached to feel the coming warmth of a new season.

He was always cold these days, so frozen and barren of any hope that the sun might show its face and warm his chilled hands. Still, it was the duty of a king to bear his kingdom’s agony alongside it, and he hardly felt the pain anymore. The cold was harder to stave off, but he would endure as long as he yet lived.

He listened carefully for a moment, head tilted and waiting. Anticipation settled low in his belly, and when he heard nothing but wind and the pleas of the withered world, he nearly scoffed at himself for his eagerness. It would likely be hours yet before the first part of the ritual would be completed, and his part could begin.

He leaned back against a sturdy tree, a divot in the wood cradling him as he closed his eyes and waited. His mind was awhirl with thoughts of what was to occur this night. The moon shone across the snow, fields and forest nestled in crystalline perfection. The very air had stilled as though some deeper _magik_ knew that it would soon be summoned forth to draw the grass from the ground and leaves from brittle branches once more.

The Dragonslayer would begin his hunt, and Thranduil would end this night with his legs wrapped around Dale’s new king and an oath to Arda fulfilled.

He shuddered, feeling heated suddenly despite the perpetual chill that he carried in his chest, and let the tree take more of his weight. Oh, but it had been so very long since he’d felt this desperate for another’s touch. His wife had taken his heart and his desire with her when the light left her eyes, and to find it once more in the bargeman reluctantly turned king was…

He nearly laughed out loud for the joy of it, murmuring his gratitude to his wife, for surely she had spoken on his behalf, asked the authority of Valinor to not leave him bereft and alone, with a son traveling to destinations unknown and not a friend to his counsel.

When he next opened his eyes, he found he’d wandered further in, deeper and closer to where his favored alcove rested among the trees and small rivers. He traveled the frequented path to where the shelter lay, and found naught out of place, the shallow cave made comfortable with furs and dried fruits and smoked strips of meat. 

He crept in, keeping low to the ground until he could splay out against the furs and pillows with a deep moan, idly stretching out for a moment before he turned to the task of ensuring his chosen spot was well stocked. He took note of the food supply, made a small fire and heated the pot of oil that would likely be nearly depleted by the time they were through.

His body heated once more, and for all his ages upon the earth, he could scarcely keep his hands from wandering lower, to take himself in hand as he waited for Bard to find him.

And find him he would. Bard was an esteemed tracker among his people, and Thranduil had no intentions of fleeing. It was customary that he ought to make Bard give chase, to ensure that his suitor was worthy of him, but the very notion made him bristle. There were none worthier. The man had slain a dragon, for Eru’s sake, and if Thranduil had to wait longer than necessary, his irritation would be a force to be reckoned with. The woods needed its life now, and Thranduil would be damned if he let some ridiculous tradition stop him from providing what his kingdom required.

He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, only that he was surprised he had when he awoke to feel a warm, sturdy body settling atop his own.

He sighed softly when lips pressed against his throat, the rough scratch of Bard’s beard sending shivers skittering up his spine. He bared his neck further, letting Bard do what he would, and moaned when teeth grazed along his pulse, pausing to nip at his jaw and bite carefully at the tip of his ear. The sound rumbled deep in his chest, and the answering chuckle was equally low, Bard’s beautiful voice hushed to match the intimate glow of the fire.

“Found you,” he teased, and slowly drew back, just far enough that he could see Thranduil’s eyes, their noses brushing. “I thought you were supposed to be on the move, not holed up in such a comfortable den as this.”

“There are many things I should or should not do. I find that, usually, I do not care to be told which is which,” the Elvenking said cheekily, and Bard laughed.

“Aye, I wouldn’t expect aught else. All the better for me, since now I can spend less time in the cold hunting you down, and more time warming the both of us up.”

“A challenge nonetheless. I have not been warm in longer than I care to recall.”

He thought for a moment that he caught sadness--and perhaps a flash of longing--on Bard’s face, but he did not force the issue, instead leaning down to press a kiss to his cheeks, his eyelids, finally hesitating a moment before he brought their lips together.

Perhaps it was not such a challenge after all. The gentle way Bard took his mouth, moving slowly, experimentally, as if he longed to do nothing but taste and caress through the night, was all it took to set him aflame.

Hands roughened by bow and labor cupped his neck and cradled his jaw, and Thranduil did not care to stifle the sound he made when Bard slipped his tongue into his mouth, lightly teasing his own and encouraging the Elvenking to do his worst.

The filthy moan he coaxed from Bard’s throat when he tugged at his lip with his teeth was a reward in and of itself. He could feel the bowman’s length pressed hot against his thigh, and he shifted to match, grinding up against the solid curve of Bard’s hip. The fire sputtered and crackled, the only other sound beyond the wind whipping and the quiet rustle of fabric when Bard reached down to push the loose gown from Thranduil’s shoulders. His fingers stroked softly at the bared skin of his throat, down further to part the robe and slide warm hands to his chest, thumb just barely brushing a nipple. Thranduil arched slightly, molding himself to the desired touch, and Bard smiled, bestowing another kiss before he seemed to take pause.

“How is this to be done? That is--” The bowman’s face reddened, and though Thranduil’s laughter was music to him, he couldn’t help the disgruntled mutter at being made fun of. “I know how to do _that_ , you wicked Elf. I only mean to ask if there is anything I need to keep in mind in order for this to work.”

“I should hope that soon there will be absolutely nothing on your mind at all.”

“Cheeky,” Bard growled, grinning, though he could not hide how his cock twitched at the promise. “Truly, are there any words that need to be said, or fancy Elvish spells they’ve kept from me in order to make me feel all the more ridiculous?”

Thranduil frowned, wondering if he ought to have seen to Bard’s education on the ritual himself. There were some in his counsel that were truly upset by who he had chosen to fulfill the requirements of the spell, and he would certainly not put it past them to deny Bard information in order to ensure his failure. The thought made him tense, and his lover took immediate notice.

“Thranduil?”

“What did they tell you?”

Bard’s face flushed even redder. “Ah, only that I was required by the King of the Woodland Realm to aid him in the fulfillment of an ancient ritual. I’m not entirely sure, but I know it has something to do with the forest needing an extra push every few centuries. To be honest, they lost me at ‘you’re going to bugger the Elvenking.’”

“I am quite certain Galion did not use those precise words.”

“I am quite certain whatever high brow wording they used, it still amounted to ‘you’re going to bugger the Elvenking’.”

Something caught his attention. “They said I _required_ your presence?” Bard suddenly felt the mood shift into something dark, something terrible and angry, and for a moment, the human was terrified for his life, until it became suddenly clear who Thranduil was angry at. “Answer me!”

“I--they said that as your closest friend and ally, the task would have to fall to me, since so few can be trusted.” Bard trembled, remembering the longing he had felt, how he had laughed, thinking them to be jesting, until it was made abundantly clear that it was no joke. Silly of him, really. Since when did Elves partake in _humor_? And _oh_ , he’d never been so glad for it. As they explained what would be asked of him, assuring him that no one would think less of him if he refused, he’d been dizzy with thoughts of what this would mean.

A night with the being who had saved his people from destruction and destitution, who had sheltered them when rebuilding began. The one who had patiently begun teaching him everything he could possibly cram into his head about being a good leader for his people. The one who had become a closer friend than Bard had ever had, who stood closely when they met at Erebor, allowing him to stand guard at his left side, knowing that Bard had seen the extent of the damage dragonfire had wrought and did not judge him for it.

The bowman longed to tell Thranduil that he admired him for his valor, for his willingness to sacrifice anything and everything for his people, that he could never think of the Elf as anything less than the most beautiful, ethereal creature he’d ever encountered, and that he longed to worship that fair form with his body, whether it bore ragged scars or remained unblemished and smooth in his sight.

It had been nigh on two years now that he had quietly and unobtrusively loved his friend, but never had he dared to hope that he might be permitted to act on his feelings. This opportunity was not quite was he’d wanted, but none understood the phrase ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ better than him. A king he now may be, but the Elvenking was still as far from his reach as he had been when Bard was still a bargeman.

His musings were rapidly interrupted.

“They will _rue_ their words,” he hissed, sitting up so suddenly he nearly upended Bard from his lap. The other man had to grip his shoulders to be prevent being thrown off, and cringed when he saw the cold, bitter fire in Thranduil’s eyes. “They must think me so low, to resort to forcing another--an ally, king, and _friend_ no less--to bed me. Wretched, writhing _vipers_. I will see them suffer for treating you thus, and for their heinous slight against my character. That they would think I would command…” His voice suddenly wavered, eyes far away and so hurt, so old and sad, that Bard found tears welling in reply.

“No, Thranduil,” he said, proud that his voice faltered only slightly. “There has been a misunderstanding. They made it clear that I had a choice in the matter, but that as the nearest king and friend, I was the most...suitable, as it were.”

This time, the agony was written so plainly that Bard’s heart felt as though it had ceased to beat, if only so that it would never again be forced to endure such a naked show of devastation on Thranduil’s face again. He wondered when the change had occurred, when it first happened that the stony countenance had fallen away and he’d been allowed to see the unbridled feeling Thranduil was capable of.

“And you agreed to such terms?”

Bard nodded slowly. “Aye.” He drew out the word, uncertain.

“I see.” All the warmth underneath him disappeared, and he suddenly found himself on the floor and Thranduil as far away from him as the small space would allow. The aloofness had returned, all mischief and kindness vanished, and suddenly Bard faced not Thranduil, his friend and shieldmate, but the Elvenking, icy and untouchable as the stars.

“Thranduil…”

“I would ask you to leave, and return to your children, but the night has grown too cold for such a journey. You may take the fur nearest to the fire. I am going to take a walk.”

“But--”

“Do not expect me back before the dawn. I will escort you back to Dale at first light. Perhaps there is still time to find another for the ritual.”

_Oh._

“Another?” Bard asked faintly, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. He was at a loss, not knowing what he had said to make things so very wrong, and the weight of it made it hard to breathe. “Am I not en...did I say something wrong? Please, tell me what I have done and I shall rectify it. Truly, I did not mean to upset you.”

“You have done nothing untoward, Bard. You have made the situation perfectly clear, and I intend to remedy what has been done under false pretences.”

He felt it like a knife in his chest. If there were a clearer way to say that his affections were not returned, he hoped he never heard it.

The silence was suffocating, all-consuming, and he was drowning in it.

“I apologize for any inconvenience I have caused,” he heard himself say from somewhere far away, ears ringing and pain nearly choking him. He had learned many years ago that the agony of the heart and the pain of the body were closely knit, but that it could not be cured in the same way. “But please, the woods are frozen, and I cannot rest knowing you might come to harm out in the cold.”

“This is my forest. No harm will come to me here,” Thranduil dismissed his concerns with a shallow wave of his arm.

“But the spiders--” he began, only to be silenced with an irritated look from his friend.

“Cannot abide such frosty temperatures, I assure you. Do not be simple, Bard. It’s unbecoming.”

The shock at being spoken to so harshly nearly overwhelmed him for a moment, years of holding his tongue and remaining silent to keep his children from suffering suddenly rose to the surface, and he nearly allowed himself to be cowed. And then, the part that had embraced his new kingship, that held the lives of his people in his hands, the one that had shot down a dragon and been uncovered by the being standing before him with disdain on his beloved face decided it had had enough. He could hardly remember the last time he’d been so _angry._

“I see. Do not be stupid, Bard, I am a sturdy Elf that is surely _not_ throwing a temper tantrum like a babe. I am a wise and ageless creature far better than such a lowly bargeman, after all,” he mocked, uncaring that he, too, sounded like an errant child. “Be grateful I have wasted my time on you at all. Know your place, Bard. Be silent, Bard. Do you hear yourself? Sometimes your arrogance stuns even me.”

“I--”

“No, do not speak to me, Elf! It is my turn to talk. _You_ were the one who summoned me here. I was prepared to do whatever you asked of me, for any reason. If you changed your mind, I would not hold that against you. This ritual is already so strange and foreign to me, I would not begin to presume understanding why I was even chosen in the first place. You may do as you please with your mind and your body, but don’t you _dare_ , for one second, presume to deny me that same right. I am not yours to order around or cast aside. I am not a servant you can use and waste and then throw away when it suits you. I am a person and a king and Eru help me, but I thought I was your friend. If this is how you treat your friends, I can see why you have none!”

Curses, but it didn’t feel any better to say such bitter things. His hurt spoke for him, twisting the humiliation he felt at Thranduil’s callous remarks and molding them into a weapon. The arrow hit its mark, swift and sure, but there was no victory in it.

Thranduil fled faster than a thrush from a raven, and Bard was left with nothing but the sound of the wind whipping angrily and his own heartbeat loud in his chest, aching at the ruined look Thranduil had worn before he’d run.

The yell he let out in frustration was loud enough that some animal was startled in the night, its feet carrying it as far from the den as Thranduil had gone.

He didn’t know how long he waited, only that he’d spent all of it wondering how they had gone from tentative kisses and heated touches to him hoping that Thranduil would come back unharmed, and let him apologize and beg for their friendship. Surely this was nothing they could not return from. They could make it right, even laugh about it eventually, no matter that he knew he would have to continue to keep his love to himself, and content himself with the time he was allowed.

He suddenly woke, disoriented and in a cold sweat. Blearily, he looked around the cave, and saw that everything was as it had been. He nearly knocked his head against the low ceiling, scrambling to find his bow, invoking every Valar’s name in hopes that he would find Thranduil safe, and soon. It wasn’t until he turned to seek out his boots that he was alerted to the sounds coming from just outside the den.

He paused, listening, and felt his stomach drop when he realized they were the sounds of sobbing, stifled so as to be nearly silent, but there nonetheless.

He donned his boots and grabbed one of the blankets, creeping to the front of the den where he took a deep, fortifying breath.

Thranduil sat on the ground, leaning against a boulder and shaking with the force of holding back his cries. His tears were crystal drops against his cheeks, frozen and icy on his face, and his pallor was whiter than death.

Bard’s heart squeezed, yearning to do whatever it took to bring Thranduil back inside where it was warm and safe, where he could make things right between them. He crawled over to where Thranduil sat, making a space beside him. He settled the blanket around them both, drawing Thranduil in close so that he could transfer some of his heat to the other. He was surprised when Thranduil let himself be moved, speaking not a word of protest nor hiding his tears.

He took long fingers in his and brought them to his lips, letting his breath ghost over them until they began to feel less corpse-like. Thranduil watched him, eyes never wavering from his face, saying nothing. It wasn’t until Bard began brushing away the tears with his sleeves that he spoke.

“You are right.”

“No,” Bard disagreed immediately, pausing to make sure Thranduil heard him. “Everything I said, I said in anger. I said them with the intent to hurt you as you hurt me, and I am so very sorry for it.”

“And yet you were not incorrect. I brushed off your ability to make your own choices as if it was not the very reason I was so distraught. I spoke to you as though you are not among the few I trust, the one who has proven himself to be more capable than any before him. I called you simple when you are anything but. I was...prepared to not see you again simply because my pride was wounded and you drew my attention to my arrogance. What sort of friend does that make me?” Bard wiped away new tears as they fell.

“We both acted in anger, and now we must face the consequences of our actions, but I will not likely forsake you for such a petty disagreement. This will heal, as all things do, with a little time and our attention to rectifying our words,” Bard said quietly, wishing that he could kiss the sorrow from Thranduil’s face. He wondered how he could endure keeping his secret after knowing how the Elvenking tasted, sounded, and felt against him.

“You would stand by me?” Thranduil asked in apparent shock, and it earned a rueful chuckle from the bowman.

“Aye. Only if you come inside, though. I don’t fancy becoming an icicle before I can apologize properly.”

He shuffled back around the boulder, sighing in relief when he heard the Elvenking move to follow him, and was immediately grateful when he found the fire had not gone out.

“Here, come sit closer to the flames. You’ll not thaw all the way over there.”

“Elves can tolerate nearly any weather conditions while awake,” Thranduil muttered, but came closer and allowed Bard to bundle him in furs and blankets.

“Let me fuss. I...I was frightened, thinking you were still far from me and might be in danger. It may be your forest, but not even you can foresee everything that might do you harm.”

When no quip or argument was voiced, Bard turned from tending the fire to look at his companion. Thranduil was staring intently at him with a war waged in his eyes.

“What troubles you, Thranduil? Beyond the obvious, I mean. I cannot share the burden if you will not speak of it to me,” he coaxed, shifting close enough to feel a bit like a child sharing secrets in a hastily assembled fort the way Tilda often did with her friends.

When Thranduil finally spoke, his voice was heavy with grief. “Many thoughts cloud my mind at the moment, but the most trivial is also among the loudest. You will think me vain.”

“I already think you vain,” Bard teased, and earned a small quirk of the Elf’s lips for his efforts.

Thranduil hesitated only a moment before he elaborated. “The way in which the request was made of you...am I so undesirable that my counsel felt a potential suitor must be pressured into sharing my bed for the ritual?”

Bard sat back, alarmed. “What?”

“It was practically demanded of you. In their minds, you are most equipped to tolerate my ‘eccentricities’, as they are fond of calling them, and we already have a standing alliance. I am a great many things; most of them are effective for leading my kin, but not for forging bonds with others. Still, above all else I love my people. I love Arda, her forests, and rivers, and mountains. I’ve not heard the call of the sea, and I suspect I never shall. I can get along with nearly anyone--save perhaps a dwarf--if it means the world will grow anew for the next century or two. That they would go to such lengths to secure your acceptance...I was unaware that they saw me as so ugly and broken that they felt the need to withhold information and shroud the event in secrecy. I am usually impervious to their opinions and judgements, so I am unsure why I care, but I...I find that I do. Perhaps because it means they see me as unfit to fulfill my oaths to the kingdom I have given everything for.”

Bard was a loss of where to begin. He hadn’t suspected that such a deep misunderstanding had taken place, but hope was slowly growing in his chest once more. He couldn’t find it in him to stifle it, and so the only way now was forward.

“Thranduil, I am not the king of your realm. You know your subjects and your counsel better than anyone else, but I do not think they came to me because I can ‘tolerate’ you or whatever nonsense you’ve let into your head. They approached me because I suspect Tauriel spoke to them about how quickly I would say ‘yes.’”

The Elvenking’s head turned sharply to him, alert in a way Bard had only seen while in battle.

“What do you mean by this?”

“It was everything and nothing I wanted. In the end, my heart won over my head. Surely it was better to love you for just one night than never be allowed to at all. And such a convenient excuse! A ritual that needed fulfillment, that would permit me to be close for however long I could make it last. Memories to ease the years after, when I’d have to want you from afar again. It was too much to resist,” he confessed, and ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “I let my affections cloud my judgement, and now we’ve both suffered for it. I’m sorry I couldn’t just leave well-enough alone. Instead, I had to let my mouth run only to realize you thought my acceptance was a slight against you.”

“Bard…”

“Eru above, it wasn’t. You’ve no idea, the years I’ve lain awake wanting you, wishing everything was different so that I might stand a slightly better chance of holding your attention. If you think I could ever find you undesirable, it is only because you’ve not seen me spread out for you, hating that it is my hands and not yours on me. I’ve spiraled so far beyond the pleasure I’d like to wring from you that it was well over a year ago I began to want you in other ways. I want my children to wake from the nightmares that plague them and find themselves safely wrapped in our arms. I want to wake with you as many mornings as we can afford to spend away from our duties and have your face be the first thing I see.”

“You--”

Bard couldn’t stop. Not now. Not if he was to get through this.

“I want to spend my days listening to your brilliant mind at work when we talk about affairs of the state and knowing I will be heard when I voice my own thoughts. I want the nights to be filled with the sounds of lovemaking, of us joining in body and letting go of all else but what we need in that moment. I was a fool to think I could survive on one night alone. Another hundred years would not be nearly enough.”

He’d been so impassioned, feeling lighter and freer than he had since he’d realized he was in love with the Elvenking, that when he came back down, he feared a blow was imminent in the face of such vulgar admissions.

Thranduil’s face showed no signs of hostility, however. His expression was glazed over, his mouth open just a bit, and he’d moved closer without either of them realizing it.

“Bard,” he said, voice rough and low and so heated Bard felt his own skin burn with the need to touch. Suddenly, with more certainty than he’d ever felt before, he realized that he could. He _could_. Thranduil was...he was...“Bard, I beg of you--”

He didn’t need to be told. He pushed Thranduil down onto the soft furs with a ragged moan, claimed his mouth with his own, felt the lines of their bodies against each other and cried out when Thranduil pulled him closer with a gasped, “Yes, yes, Bard, please!”

He ground down against the Elvenking like a man possessed, toeing off his boots before he nearly tore off his shirt in his haste to feel soft skin warming against him. Thranduil’s robe was pushed down and away, and suddenly there was so much to look at, so much to taste and touch, that Bard felt overwhelmed.

Gentle hands framed his face, bringing him back to eyes that held no ice here. “Hush, _astalder_. I am here. I am yours. Do with me what you will.”

He breathed in deeply for a few moments, centering himself. They had time now, and he would damn well use every moment of it. This time, when he kissed Thranduil, it was soft, and easy, as it was when they’d begun.

They stayed like that, trading light kisses until Thranduil reached up to untie the band that kept Bard’s hair back, fingers scratching at his scalp and making the bowman shiver when he trailed his nails along the back of his neck. His hair tumbled down, framing his face with errant curls. Thranduil wound his fingers through the strands, watched with hunger as Bard bit his lip when he tugged just a bit. Using the new information, he shifted until he was sitting and pulled Bard’s head back, leaning up to pepper open mouthed kisses along the column of his neck. When he bit down, Bard keened low in his throat and rocked down in his lap, both of them gasping at the sensation.

Bard lifted up, wriggling until he could divest himself of his trousers, and Thranduil cast aside his robe, rolling to lay back bare against the soft furs and pillows. He nearly purred at the sight of the Dragonslayer ridding himself of his last few garments. His skin was warm and decorated with scars and freckles alike. Powerful muscle shifted and stretched as he crouched to crawl back over to their nest, and Thranduil hummed in approval when Bard let his full weight settle over the Elvenking, every bit of them fever warm against the other.

Their languid kisses grew deeper, spoke more fiercely of their desire, and both moaned when Bard began to set a rhythm, undulating his hips against the Elvenking’s, furthering their need with the delicious friction.

“You never answered my question from before,” Bard whispered into the space between shoulder and neck, marking the skin he found there before turning his attention further down Thranduil’s chest.

“Which one?” Thranduil’s breath hitched as the bowman took a nipple into his mouth, thumb roughly teasing at the other.

“The one about how, exactly, this all works.” His voice was hesitant, but he kept himself resolute. He would not have the night turn so far from what it had been again, but this spell clearly meant a great deal to the Elves. He could not risk ruining it because of his mortal impatience.

“It is the _Yenearsira_ , our Winter Solstice. There are many fertility celebrations among Elves, for we conceive so rarely, but _Yenearsira_ is not about new life among walking creatures, but for the plants, the soil, the trees and waters of Arda.” Bard was still, eyes riveted to Thranduil’s, taking in the new information that had not been given him before.

“It requires one who holds dominion over a portion of the earth itself to be satisfied, to be made warm and able to produce new life. For some, that is taken in a very literal sense. The Lady Galadriel conceived a child during her first ritual, but for those without a womb, the new life is metaphorical. It is rather mischievous, in a sense. For when is one warmer and more eager to please than when involved in sexual congress? I, however, have been blamed time and again for the failure of the ritual over the span of my millenia as king. The spell is always halved, for I could hardly bear to touch any but my wife for so long after her death.”

Bard was horrified. “And they would lay blame on you for your mourning? How could they?”

“It is the duty of a king to sacrifice for his kingdom. Sacrifices are not meant to be easy, or convenient,” Thranduil disagreed gently.

Bard shook his head, mouth in a thin line, trying for all the world to hold his tongue in the face of such callousness towards the Elvenking’s loss.

“Bard, look at me,” Thranduil instructed calmly, and Bard found gratefulness and adoration in the usually impassive gaze. “Your anger on my behalf only shows your compassion, but do not think so long on things that are past. Tonight, I have hope that the spell’s effectiveness will not be hindered at all.”

Bard did not think he could have turned redder at the implication. “I could not lie with you if you thought our union a sacrifice to bear,” he admitted, squeezing his eyes closed. The thought was surely what had sent Thranduil fleeing from him earlier, and it was nearly unbearable to think that the one he loved might be with him out of obligation, no matter how well-meaning. He felt wretched for yelling.

“I do not think it a burden,” Thranduil replied, taking Bard’s hands in his and kissing his wrists, the heat suddenly overwhelming in his eyes. “Not at all. You are not the only one who has spilled into their hand night after night. Long are the hours I’ve spent thinking of your face and your voice, wished that it might be your fingers preparing me to harbor your body. I could scarcely keep my hands from wandering before you found me here. The only thing that stayed them was the hope that you would be as ravenous as I.” He brought Bard’s hands down, used his own to guide the other’s fingers around his cock, and hissed when Bard moaned and his hips jerked up into their combined grip. “I have longed for this, and for the things you spoke of. Do not make me wait any longer.”

The sounds that ripped from Bard’s chest was inhuman, feral and wild and _perfect_ , and yet Bard was slow, predatory, and unrushed as he took over the rhythm of their hands. Thranduil gasped when his fingers were batted away, strong hands suddenly gripping his to be pinned over his head. Bard held him down against the fur in a way that almost convinced him he could not break free, and _oh_ but it made him writhe.

He released control over to his lover, letting his body go pliant and malleable, and he sighed with delight when Bard took advantage of the sudden shift in his weight. His hips were gripped, dragged closer and he found his legs parted by Bard’s knees. The bowman smiled wickedly at him for a moment, taking in his flushed cheeks and the hair splayed around him, before he swiftly leaned down to take Thranduil in his mouth, humming in delight at Thranduil’s grunt of surprise. He was unskilled in this, far more used to a very different type of anatomy, but he knew from experience that it mattered little in the end. There would be time enough to practice.

He did not push himself, simply took what he could and let his hand do the rest, until he felt Thranduil’s hands flutter at the base of his skull. He drew off, smirking when Thranduil whimpered. He knew what his mouth must look like, and it sent a shiver up his spine to know how it affected the Elvenking. “You can fuck my mouth, my lord,” he said coyly, laughing when Thranduil glared at him, though the effect was rather ruined when his lover’s cock twitched against his cheek, the precome smearing obscenely.

“Return to your task, then, _bargeman_ ,” Thranduil scoffed haughtily, and let his hands wander into unruly hair. Bard lowered his eyes and licked along the easy curve of Thranduil’s length, sucking at the head and running his tongue along the slit. If a cock could be pretty, Thranduil’s certainly was, and Bard let himself feel a moment of regret that it would not be in him tonight. _Later_ , he promised himself. It nearly choked him when Thranduil used his grip on his hair to guide himself in deep. _Later and often._

“Bard,” Thranduil moaned, pressing his hips up once more before he pulled away and reached over to his side to unerringly find the pot of oil that had been warmed. “Come here.” He drew Bard to him, licked his own taste from the other’s mouth in a desperate kiss, and rolled until they lay on their sides, Bard curved around the long form of the Elf, where he could run his hand across every plane and divot of Thranduil’s body. Thranduil pressed the oil into his hands, and breathed deeply, not turning to look as he heard the click of a lid and the liquid sounds of fingers being thoroughly coated. He bent his knee at the first touch of slick against his entrance.

Bard stared, mesmerized at the flex of corded muscle when Thranduil’s hand gripped the furs. He circled slowly until Thranduil let his tense posture relax, and kissed a smooth shoulder as he carefully pressed a finger in.

“ _Oh_ ,” Thranduil whispered, and Bard moved closer, the angle more difficult, but unwilling to be anything but as inseparable as possible at the moment. “I can take more.” It was a command and a plea and Bard was helpless to deny him anything. Another finger hastily joined the first, and he set to work finding the place inside the Elvenking that would have him seeing the stars Elves were so fond of.

He knew he’d found his mark when Thranduil mewled, hips jerking back into his hand. “ _Ai!_ There, Bard! Do not tease any longer, I cannot bear it! Take me or I shall ruin everything!”

The bowman whimpered. His skin felt tight and his body burned with need at Thranduil’s words. Finally, he thought he understood what the ritual entailed. He let his fingers slip from Thranduil’s body, both of them moaning at the lewd squelch of it, and tugged him as close as possible, the Elvenking cradled in the bend of his form, and kissed his neck, his cheek, his ear, his temple, as he carefully guided himself in. Inch by agonizing inch, his vision blurred at the tight heat of his Elvenking, and he panted into Thranduil’s shoulder blade, reigning in his desire to lay siege and take and take and _take_.

He shivered, slipping fingers through the silky hair to comb it away from Thranduil’s face to distract himself. The Elvenking reached back to run his hand over Bard’s thigh, drawing it further over his own until Bard thought he might perish from how incredible it all felt. Through the haze, he heard Thranduil whispering. They were words of supplication and want, desire and need, and Bard found himself entranced by the sounds of the ritual being murmured to the earth. It was like no Elvish he’d ever heard, but the meaning was clear. He couldn’t help but press a little deeper, groaning when Thranduil bore down around him but did not stop speaking the spell until it was complete.

“Cheeky,” he hummed, turning his head a bit to kiss Bard, barely a sharing of air due to the angle, but it still made Bard feel like he was being devoured whole. “Impatient,” he continued, and laughed softly when Bard grunted and flicked his ear for the quip.

“My patience has been nigh on virtuous, my lord,” he snarked primly, and in a move so fast and utterly unexpected, Thranduil was suddenly perched atop him, thighs splayed over his hips and attempting to keep the look of rapture from his expression as Bard was pushed deeper.

“Indeed,” he agreed breathlessly, a low moan ripped from him when he began to move, rising and falling hypnotically, fucking himself slowly and steadily on Bard’s cock. “Such virtue deserves a reward.”

Bard could only stare helplessly for a moment at the sight before him. The Elvenking had his head thrown back, one hand against Bard’s chest for balance and the other was gripping the furs below them, the pace doing nothing but making him pant and ache for more. It was when Thranduil opened his eyes, hazy with lust, that Bard shuddered and thrust his hips up sharply.

The cry of ecstasy Thranduil made was one Bard would not soon forget.

He rolled them, shoving Thranduil down to his stomach before slipping back in, nearly every inch of them touching. His arm snaked beneath them to hold Thranduil against him as he sped his thrusts, kissing and mouthing at the skin of neck and shoulder bared to him. Thranduil was making debauched little noises, rocking back into his movements before he pressed forward to grind himself against the soft furs.

“So beautiful,” Bard whispered, biting the tip of a pointed ear, gratified when it sent full body shivers careening down the other’s spine. “My body has endlessly yearned for yours. I have woken in the night with a hand reaching for you, to pull you close, but they are only ever fever dreams. I--” He stopped, choking back the words wanting to spill out. He wanted to tell Thranduil of the times he’d been alone in Erebor, wishing he had someone to help him make sense of things he’d never learned--never _needed_ to learn the things so far above his station. He wanted to speak of the immeasurable happiness that welled within him whenever Thranduil picked Tilda up in his arms or showed Bain the best way to walk silently in the forest, or told Sigrid that her worth was far beyond what the world would soon expect of her.

He could talk for ages about how every time Thranduil left, he had to firmly remind himself that it was not forever and that there were other more pressing matters to attend to than his heart.

It was only in the wee hours of the morning that he would allow himself to submit to what he wanted so badly. Sometimes it was gritting his teeth and smothering his cries into his pillow as he gasped the Elvenking’s name, and other times it was hours of lying awake in the dark, wishing he could curl around the tall frame of his friend and listen to how the other’s day had gone.

“I never thought--” He could not continue, too close to saying all the words in his heart, when they would be made meaningless by the cold light of the stars and the heated air between their skin.

“Nor I,” Thranduil said, nearly inaudible against the furs. He turned to look at Bard over his shoulder, spreading his legs wider to encourage Bard to keep moving, hissing when Bard curled his arm under the Elvenking’s chest, bringing him up to both drive himself deeper and be closer, ever closer, to his treasure. “For all I am spoiled in the ways and riches of the world, I-- _oh yes, there_ \--I rarely get what I actually want.”

Bard smiled softly and bit at the nape of Thranduil’s neck, offered to him when his next thrust made Thranduil moan. His entire body was pliant under Bard’s, held up only by the man’s strength, and it was not a trust he took lightly. “What is it you want now, my king?”

Thranduil took in a sharp breath at the title, whimpering when his cock was stroked in time with the powerful feeling of Bard inside him, overwhelming his senses. Where Thranduil would normally balk at the mere idea of being possessed by another, there was no safer place than in the bowman’s steady, reliable hands. Hands that wrung such pleasure from him, worshipped his flesh and assured him of more than just their want. His body pleased him and his voice praised him and it was altogether more than he deserved after his harsh words, but he would be a fool to refuse Bard’s forgiveness and love.

_Love._

It sent a thrill of heady ecstasy through him. Love freely given and easily returned, for he knew of no being that could resist falling in love with one such as Bard.

“You, _a’maelamin_. Make me come, I beg of you. Let the earth know it is time for new growth, for a stronghold where the Shadow holds no power. I have wanted that for so long, Bard.” _I have yearned for you for so long._ He nearly screamed as Bard gave a guttural cry and held him down, splayed out upon the ground as an offering, letting himself be taken fully, until he could do nothing but rake his fingers into the dirt and furs and spill into the hand working his cock.

His muscles tightened, the satisfaction overwhelming and he hazily felt Bard follow him, spending himself deep within Thranduil’s body, holding them so close together as he shivered and whispered Thranduil’s name.

It was a long while before their breathing slowed and their hearts stopped racing. Bard made as if to pull away, and Thranduil wordlessly rolled them to lie on their sides, still joined. “I fear I cannot go again so soon, my king,” Bard teased, voice rough and intimate against his shoulder where he laid dozens of reverent kisses. “I do not share your stamina.”

Thranduil smiled and finally let Bard slip from between his legs, rolling to brace himself over the other, proud of the well-fucked look on Bard’s face. “I merely wished to remain close a while longer, but your worry is unfounded. There are many ways to please me that require only hands and mouths and many sundry...objects, shall we say, of varying purpose.” He smirked at the blush staining the bowman’s cheeks and the quirked eyebrow, delighted by the way his lover’s tongue darted out to wet his lips at the thought. “Besides, there is always the other way around.”

Bard groaned and pushed up, just once, against Thranduil’s spent length. “You tempt me so beautifully, my lord. I hope you are planning on keeping such a promise in the near future. This very night, in fact, so long as you grant me a few moments to catch my breath.” He snickered at the formal wording and leaned up to take Thranduil’s mouth in a gentle kiss. “Did we complete the ritual?”

Thranduil could not begin to put words to the deep welling of adoration that spilled out into every crack and crevice of the forest. “I have no doubt anyone will be able to doubt just how thoroughly we satisfied the terms of the _magik_ when they look out into the world on the morrow.”

Bard blinked. “Tomorrow? But that is so soon! Surely--”

“See for yourself.”

He gestured to the entrance of the cave, and Bard peered out into the darkness of the night. Indeed, if he squinted he could make out tiny shoots coming up from the cold, barren ground; life where there had been none.

Bard let out a shout of triumph and Thranduil’s answering laughter was more beautiful than the sun that would rise to give light to the renewal that was taking place deep within the soil.

It was a new hope that--even in the time to come when an aged Lord of Dale took his last breath and an Elvenking remained eternal--was the light Thranduil sought as he waited, patient and ever-watchful, for the return of his king.


End file.
